


Offer No Absolutes

by staticontheline



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 11th Century, Cuddling & Snuggling, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Movie, Temporary Character Death, Touch-Starved, apologies to historians, because who can't relate to that right now?, but still, historical setting, i did do research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 09:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26849305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staticontheline/pseuds/staticontheline
Summary: Nicolò and Yusuf met in the Crusades. They killed each other (a lot). Then they take some time to get to know each other.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 27
Kudos: 240





	Offer No Absolutes

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to [confused_android](https://archiveofourown.org/users/confused_android) for betaing and also for being so supportive through the process, since this is literally the first fic I’ve written in 20 years. Thanks also to Carol, my mostly-non-fandom friend who was nonetheless happy to let me bounce ideas off her, to my sister for letting me talk at her about this even though it’s not her thing, and to all the Stream Team for being amazing.

The sword comes down and Nicolò grunts, closing his eyes briefly in pain and exasperation. After days of this, he can tell he has seconds before death claims him, and he does not wish to lose the opportunity to deal equal pain to this heretic who seems just as unwilling to remain dead. His eyes open. His own sword flashes. Both men fall.

* * *

Nicolò gasps awake and feels the wounds over his body healing. He pulls his enemy’s sword from his side and looks at it, trying to concentrate on the craftsmanship, the artistry, as he works to ignore the sensation of his body knitting itself back together. The sword balances lightly in his hand, and under the blood - his blood - that coats the blade, it is a beautiful weapon.

Why are they still doing this?

It has been weeks since that first battle when the two of them had met, died, and awakened for the first time. Again and again they fought each other and died. There were so many soldiers and so many corpses that nobody seemed to notice when two of them stubbornly refused to stay on the ground. But this time, the battle moved on while Nicolò and his enemy lay dead. 

All is quiet. All is peaceful. And now Nicolò wonders why they fight. What is the use, if neither of them will stay dead? 

He could walk away. He could leave this man behind and never fight again. He had joined the Knights Templar out of a duty to defend the Holy Land, and as a penance for sins he had committed, but now he questions both that duty and the very notion of sin. And as for penance, if dying a dozen and more times is not penance enough, then how could killing be better?

The other man still has not woken. Nicolò leans over and reaches for his own sword, pulling it out of the body of his enemy — perhaps his former enemy. Several moments pass, and then the man gasps and opens his eyes.

Nicolò suddenly realizes that he is a Templar standing over a Moor holding two bloody swords. He lowers the weapons slowly, then carefully bends to lay them on the ground. Holding out his empty hands, he says clearly, “I do not wish to fight anymore.” The man on the ground stares at him blankly. Nicolò tries another language, and a third. “ _I do not wish to fight_ .” Finally, reaching for the little Arabic he had learned during his travels, he carefully says, “ _No. Fight.”_ Then he reaches out his hand.

The Moor stares at him through all of this. Without warning, he grabs Nicolò’s hand to pull himself upright, stoops to pick up one of the swords, and runs Nicolò through again. Nicolò hears him speak, but the words are lost as blackness closes over him again.

* * *

Nicolò wakes to his enemy standing over him, anger plain on the man’s face as he yells in a language Nicolò does not understand. "I do not wish to fight," Nicolò repeats regardless, as soon as he can speak, in every language he can muster.

The sword comes down and he closes his eyes.

* * *

Nicolò breathes in and wakes. Coming back from the dead seems to be easier this time, perhaps because he can feel no sword or knife stuck into his body. It is still unpleasant. He looks around.

Where is the battlefield? They had been surrounded by corpses of their fellow soldiers. Instead, he is lying on the floor in a small room. There is a full waterskin laying near him. He hesitates, then realizes that worrying about poison is foolish and drinks. 

Nicolò jumps and reaches for weapons that are not at hand when he hears a sound from the door. The Moor walks in with a bowl and reaches from a careful distance to hand it to him. Again Nicolò hesitates and again he realizes it is foolish. He takes the bowl. As he eats, he watches the other man move around the room. He carefully cleans and oils all the weapons - even Nicolò’s - and lays them out on a low table. He unrolls a small rug, very deliberately placing it between Nicolò and the weapons, and kneels in what Nicolò recognizes as prayer. Nicolò closes his eyes and bows his head in contemplation, though he cannot bring himself to pray.

“Would you like to wash?”

Nicolò starts at the words, then opens his eyes and looks down. He is of course still covered in blood and dirt from the battle. Then he stares at the other man in shock as it registers that he spoke in fluent Zeneize. “You understood me before,” Nicolò says.

“I understood your words. I did not understand what you meant,” comes the short reply. “And I was still full of anger. Do you wish to wash?” He gestures to a corner, where Nicolò sees a pile of folded fabric and a basin, presumably with more water. "And change your clothes. When you finish, we must leave."

As Nicolò carefully wipes the blood and grime from his skin and rinses it from his hair and beard, his former enemy - whose name he realizes he does not know - sorts through their belongings, placing some on the table and some on the floor. In the end, the pile on the floor is full of items too damaged in their fights to salvage and those too clearly belonging to a Templar. "These we leave here," his former enemy says. 

It hurts Nicolò’s heart to leave every trace of his homeland behind, but he cannot regret an end to his time with the Order. 

"My name is Nicolò," he offers as he changes into the clean clothes that had been folded by the basin. There is a long robe made of soft cloth, with a sash to tie around his waist. Much less conspicuous than his white mantle with the red cross, even if the latter wasn’t coated with blood.

"I am Yusuf."

* * *

They walk. 

Yusuf sells some of their belongings, or possibly items that had belonged to dead men on the battlefield where they met. He purchases food and, eventually, horses. Nicolò tries not to think about where they are going or about the debt he is accruing with this man who was, until only a few hours ago, his mortal enemy. 

Their shared secret hangs between them like a cloud, coloring every interaction and every conversation. Or perhaps it isn’t the secret that shadows the conversations they attempt to have; perhaps it is the days they had spent on the battlefield, fighting and dying and waking up, only to fight and die again. 

Yusuf carries all of their weapons and refuses all offers of assistance. Nicolò stops protesting when it becomes clear the reason is that Yusuf simply does not trust him.

As evening falls, Nicolò follows Yusuf to what appears to be an inn near the edge of the city. Despite the extravagance, he realizes Yusuf has requested two small rooms, food for each of them, and stabling for their horses. As he drifts off to sleep, he wonders how long they will travel like this; side by side, but not truly together. 

* * *

In the morning, Nicolò wakes from disturbing dreams to a knock on his door and Yusuf’s voice calling to him. “We have employment. Be downstairs quickly if you wish to come. Stay here if you do not.” Unspoken but clear: _it makes no difference to me_. Nicolò wonders if Yusuf truly means those unspoken words, but decides he can wait to find out another time, and hurries to ready himself.

To his surprise, when he walks downstairs Yusuf hands him his sheathed sword and dagger. The look on Yusuf’s face is as eloquent as speech: _do not make me regret this action_. Nicolò’s lips twitch in a brief smile as he accepts his weapons, and Yusuf’s eyebrows raise in response. Then he turns and gestures to the milling throng of horses and men. 

“This merchant caravan is leaving today for Gurgandj and they need guards for the journey.” He gestures again, to several armed and armored men standing together at the edge of the crowd. “We are not the only guards they have hired.”

“That is farther than I anticipated,” Nicolò replies as he packs his few belongings onto his horse. “Do you not have family you wish to return to?” It is the first personal question either of them has asked.

Yusuf ignores it entirely and speaks quietly, so only Nicolò can hear. “Already there are rumors of two men who rose from the dead on the field of battle. The farther from here, the better.”

* * *

There is no privacy while guarding the caravan, so Nicolò is not able to ask any of the questions that are scrabbling to be spoken. Why did Yusuf carry him off the battlefield? Does he know why they do not die? Why is he staying so near now? Do strange battle-weary women haunt Yusuf’s dreams as they do Nicolò’s?

They stop at a caravanserai one night. Nicolò watches their horses while Yusuf goes to arrange for accommodations and food. Nicolò is studying the mosaic in the fountain when he hears shouts behind him and turns to see a merchant's tent half collapsed on the occupants. He quickly checks that the horses are secure, then runs to help lift the heavy cloth out of the way. Several people climb out, including an older woman and a young girl who stares at him with wide eyes. 

A man, presumably the merchant who owns the stall, speaks to Nicolò. He shakes his head and says “Nemifahmam,” one of the useful phrases he has learned. _Nemifahmam. I don’t understand_. The merchant takes in his northern features and unusual accent and instead gestures for him to keep holding the tent cloth up while he and a young man - his son, perhaps - rearrange the supports. Finally together they pull the cloth back in place and the merchant smiles broadly and claps Nicolò on his shoulder. The young man brings a tray with cups and a pitcher and Nicolò gladly drinks the fruit juice that he pours.

When he is finally able to get away, he sees Yusuf watching him from the fountain, an inscrutable expression on his usually open face. 

* * *

The next caravanserai is smaller and there is not space for anyone to sleep in a room alone. When Yusuf tells him this, Nicolò shrugs and picks up his belongings. Yusuf leads him to a small room and shuts the door behind them. The room holds two pallets and little else, and Nicolò piles his bags and weapons at the foot of one pallet, then stretches with a groan.

“You do not worry I will kill you in your sleep?” Yusuf asks after a moment.

This startles a laugh out of Nicolò, and he sees Yusuf stare at him. “We have been working together for weeks. If you were going to kill me again, you would have already done it. Or you could have left me to wake alone on the field of corpses.” He smiles wryly. “Besides, what good would it do?”

* * *

It is easier after that. Conversation, once awkward and stilted, becomes almost comfortable, and Yusuf begins to teach Nicolò more of the Persian tongue. At another caravanserai, in the evening when most men are telling stories by the large communal fire, they sit on cushions in the room they share and Yusuf at last asks Nicolò something he clearly has been longing to know. “Why were you attacking Jerusalem?”

The answer comes slowly. “I no longer know. The priests in my homeland spoke eloquently about a knight’s duty to protect the Holy Land, but... ” Nicolò pauses and looks directly at Yusuf. “I was told you were an infidel and evil and deserved to burn in Hell for all eternity. And I believed it. How could they lie? Everyone I knew believed it, or nearly. How could all my countrymen be deceived?” He pauses again, longer, and looks away. “But from what I have seen, the Holy Land needs protection from _my_ people, not yours.” Then, in a low voice: “And if the priests and so many of my countrymen were wrong about this, what else do I believe that is untrue?”

* * *

The next morning, Nicolò wakes early and searches the market for a particular item he saw for sale, and uses some of his newly-acquired skills in the local language to obtain oil and hot water from a food stall. Then he goes to find a secluded corner to make use of his purchases.

Yusuf is startled when Nicolò returns to the room, then nods his approval. “At first glance, you look like a different man. This was a good decision,” he says. Nicolò rubs his hairless face and feels exposed. 

* * *

They arrive at their destination and the caravan leader pays them handsomely for their work, declaring that this is the first time he has made the trip without being attacked on the way. He will be returning in six weeks, if they wish further employment. 

They thank him and say they will consider it, and leave. 

As they walk into the city, Yusuf suggests they find a room to rent instead of a kahn - what Nicolò would have called an inn. Eventually they meet an elderly man, Qāsim, and decide to rent a room and stabling for their horses from him and Ḥasan, who Nicolò assumes is his brother. In the room is a large bed, several cushions to sit on, and a chest for storage. They put their belongings away and sit for a moment.

"There will be food in the morning, but I thought you would not wish to eat dinner with strangers tonight. _I_ do not wish to eat dinner with strangers tonight," Yusuf adds. Nicolò nodded. His Persian was improving, thanks to Yusuf and time around so many speakers of the language, but weariness saps his skill.

Yusuf grinned suddenly, a bright and mischievous expression. "Do you wish to wash?"

Nicolò’s lips twitched in a faint smile. "Yes, but I see no basin."

Yusuf laughs openly and rises. "Come. Qāsim told me there is a hammam nearby."

* * *

The hammam is similar to the bathhouses Nicolò knew in Genoa. They undress in the antechamber, then go to a warm, steam-filled room first to relax. Yusuf speaks quietly to some of the men nearby when he sees the looks that are sent toward Nicolò’s pale skin and flat hair. 

“What did you tell them?” he asks.

“I told them we guarded a caravan together for several weeks.” Yusuf replies. “They will not trust you, but they will not bother you. Stay near.” Nicolò gives him a sad smile and steps closer as he glances around the room. A few men give him curious looks, but most return to their own conversations. One couple in a corner are even — Nicolò looks away quickly, and finds himself staring into Yusuf’s amused eyes.

“Men do not kiss where you are from?”

Nicolò takes a deep breath and wills himself to be calm. “They do. But not in so public a place. It would be —” he pauses, and swallows. “It would be unwise to be seen by so many.”

To Nicolò’s relief, this conversation is left behind as they enter the bathing area, to wash and receive a massage. He revels in the deep pool and scrubs all traces of travel from his skin and hair. He has not felt so clean since he left home. After drying off, he lies down on a bench, and relaxes as skilled hands massage tension from his muscles. 

Just when he is drifting into sleep, a noise startles him awake. Suddenly he is in an unfamiliar place, with unfamiliar hands on him, and before he can think, he rolls off the bench and shoves the man touching him away. He is pulling back his arm to strike when someone touches his shoulder and speaks his name.

“Nicolò, stop!”

He whirls and sees a man with dark hair and dark eyes looking at him with more compassion than he should feel for someone whom he was happily slaughtering only a few weeks before. Nicolò blinks and shakes his head. He rubs his hands over his face and turns to the attendant. Then he looks back to Yusuf.

“Can you tell him I did not mean to hurt him? Ask if there is anything I can do to apologize.”

Yusuf raises his eyebrows, but looks at the attendant and speaks in the flowing language that Nicolò is still only beginning to understand. The attendant replies, and gestures. Yusuf turns back. “He says if you wish, there are private rooms where you can go to find calm. He says he understands the fear that can live in a man’s heart when he has spent too long at war.”

They go to the private room. Nicolò sits on the low couch that fills most of the space and takes a deep breath, then looks up as Yusuf turns to leave. “Wait, please.”

Yusuf turns back, surprised. “Do you not want to be alone?”

Nicolò shakes his head. “I do not want to be alone.” He would add, _and I know I cannot hurt you_ , but that is not truly what he means, and he fears being misunderstood. “Please stay.”

Yusuf looks at him for a moment, then closes the door. “I will stay.”

Nicolò lies down on the couch and Yusuf sits beside him.

* * *

Nicolò wakes again, this time slowly and sweetly. 

He is warm and comfortable and more relaxed than he has been in months, or maybe years. He starts to turn over and stops, realizing that he is curled up on a couch in an unfamiliar room. His cheek is resting on something warm and solid, which he recognizes as someone’s thigh, and that same person is gently stroking his hair. 

He has not been touched so familiarly since he joined the Templars. The Order forbade such close relations between knights, and none of his acquaintances were willing to bend even so small a rule. 

Nicolò had thought, when he joined, that God and Duty would be enough, and he could put aside those desires that had been so troublesome back in his homeland. For a time, it _had_ been enough. 

This, though, was better. He would be content to stay like this forever. But now it is time to move. He shifts his weight and slowly sits up.

Yusuf’s hands now rest on his thighs. “How are you feeling?”

Nicolò stretches and tries not to think about how he already misses Yusuf’s touch. “Well. Better.” He looks into Yusuf’s kind eyes. “Thank you.” 

Yusuf stands and gestures to the door. “You are welcome, my friend. Shall we go?”

They dress and leave the hammam. On the way back to their rented room, they get a small meal from a food stall. When they reach their room, Yusuf immediately changes into his sleeping robe and lies down on the bed. Nicolò changes more slowly and hesitates before climbing in next to him. They lie back-to-back, as they had so many nights while guarding the caravan.

* * *

They are no longer back-to-back. 

Nicolò wakes abruptly from a dream of a pale woman dying in battle. He feels Yusuf's body tense against his back, Yusuf’s forehead pressed to his shoulder and his arm slung over his chest. He tries to concentrate on the dreams.

He turns his head slightly and feels Yusuf’s curls brush his cheek. "Do you dream of women?" He feels Yusuf start to pull away and clutches at the hand over his heart. Yusuf stills. "The fighters. Ever since my first death, I have dreamt of two warrior women."

"Ah." He feels Yusuf’s breath on his skin. "I do. I believe they are like us." They still have not discussed what it means that they cannot die. "Before we met, I dreamed of you."

His hand squeezes Nicolò’s and he presses their bodies more firmly together. "Those were not… pleasant dreams. But they brought us together. I cannot regret that." 

Nicolò closes his eyes and thinks of sin, and of penance. Then he thinks of the men in the hammam and Yusuf’s offhand question, "Men do not kiss where you are from?" He takes a deep breath, then brings Yusuf’s hand to his lips, kissing the back of it softly, then turning it to kiss his fingers, and his palm, and his wrist.

Nicolò feels Yusuf rise up on his elbow behind him. Someday Nicolò may explain the other reasons he joined the Templars, but now is not the time, and he thinks Yusuf will not be surprised, anyway. He turns his head and sighs as his lips meet Yusuf’s. The kiss is tentative and sweet, and Nicolò wonders how long it will take to stop thinking of how a kiss is in all ways the opposite of how they met. 

Nicolò tries to banish these thoughts from his mind. He rolls onto his back, pulling Yusuf with him, and Yusuf follows eagerly. Nicolò doesn’t know if this is the first of many kisses or if it will be the only one, so he will enjoy it while he can. He revels in the weight of the other man's body above him and slides his fingers through Yusuf’s soft curls. His breath catches as he feels Yusuf’s hands move up his sides, over his chest, and along his arms, before coming to rest at his shoulders. 

They kiss languidly, Nicolò stroking his hands through Yusuf’s hair, along his face, down his back. When he breaks away to take a breath, Yusuf nuzzles his cheek and slowly plants a row of kisses along his jaw. Nicolò revels in the sensation of Yusuf’s beard against his neck and lips against his skin. 

* * *

Eventually they rise. 

Breakfast is a friendly affair, with the four of them seated around a low table. They speak slowly and don't laugh at Nicolò's stumbling attempts at their language or his ignorant questions about the food and the city. 

When the meal is done and Nicolò and Yusuf are walking out the door, Nicolò turns back briefly and sees Qāsim press a kiss to Ḥasan's mouth. 

* * *

The payment from the caravan was generous, but not so generous that they need not think about finding more work. The question is whether to continue traveling as caravan guards or to stay in Gurgandj and find employment there. There are good points to both options, and Nicolò and Yusuf debate them all day as they walk around the city. 

* * *

That night, when they return to their room, Nicolò is nervous. As he prepares for bed, he glances at Yusuf and sees a warm smile bloom on his friend’s (his lover’s?) face. His own face feels frozen and the heat of a flush rises in his cheeks. Yusuf’s hand rests on his shoulder, the warmth of that single touch spreading through him. “I have no expectations, my friend, but if you wish to continue what we did this morning —”

Nicolò does not wait for Yusuf to finish, but turns and wraps his arms around him, hiding his face in Yusuf’s shoulder. Warm hands hold him close and stroke his hair. To his surprise and embarrassment, he feels tears running down his cheeks and soaking into Yusuf’s robe. He starts to pull away, but strong arms hold him tightly and gentle words whisper past his ear. It takes longer than Nicolò would have expected to pull himself together.

When the tears finally stop, he takes several deep breaths and then feels his shoulders loosening in a way that even yesterday’s massage had not been able to manage. He moves away only far enough that he can see Yusuf’s face. The concern there is plain, but there is no judgment, no condemnation.

“I think—” Nicolò pauses, unsure. “I think I have not been touched by a friend in so long.” He trails off and looks lost.

There is great sadness in Yusuf’s kind eyes, and he pulls Nicolò close again, pressing a brief kiss to his lips. “My dear friend, from now on, I will not let a day go by without holding you.” He leads Nicolò gently toward the bed and they lie down, Yusuf once again pressed against Nicolò’s back with his arms wrapped around him. Nicolò tries not to grip Yusuf’s hands too tightly, and finally gives in and rolls over, sliding his arms around his lover’s body and pushing his face into his chest. He falls asleep to the feeling of Yusuf stroking his head.

* * *

The next morning, Nicolò wakes up calmly and comfortably again. He hopes never to have to sleep apart from Yusuf, as he does not remember ever sleeping so well.

He stays comfortably in bed, still wrapped in Yusuf’s arms, and contemplates the upcoming day. After some time, he feels a hand moving in his hair and realizes that Yusuf is not asleep after all. He turns his face toward Yusuf. “Do you think we should _mm_ -” his sentence cuts off as Yusuf leans over and kisses him. 

“Oh, I am so sorry,” Yusuf says when they separate, with a mischievous smile and no hint of regret. “Were you saying something?”

Nicolò laughs aloud, which obviously pleases Yusuf greatly. Nicolò draws Yusuf down for another kiss, and another, a series of quick kisses trailing along his shoulder and up his neck, then a long and smoldering kiss on his mouth. He tugs Yusuf and falls backwards. Yusuf follows, laughing, and kneels over Nicolò, kissing his neck and shoulder in return. 

Nicolò distractedly bends one knee for leverage and Yusuf gasps. Nicolò hesitates as he realizes where exactly that knee is pressed. They have not discussed this, and this is beyond simply kissing. They both seem frozen in place. 

“Yusuf,” he whispers.

“Yes, my Nico,” comes the hoarse reply.

“We can do this. I want to do this.”

“You are certain? It is not necessary.”

Nicolò almost laughs again. Instead, he shifts his weight, lifting his knee just the barest fraction, rubbing it against Yusuf. He listens to the moan that elicits with satisfaction and more than a little wonder. “I want to, Yusuf. I want you.” 

He feels Yusuf settle onto him, and he groans himself at the heat of Yusuf’s prick against his thigh. Yusuf begins moving his hips in small circles and leans in to kiss Nicolò's mouth. The kiss grows more desperate as Yusuf moves more quickly against Nicolò, until he presses his face into Nicolò's shoulder to muffle the noises he cannot help making. 

Nicolò strokes Yusuf's sides and back, raising his hips to press against Yusuf with each rolling wave of motion. He feels that motion stutter, then Yusuf makes a few short, sharp thrusts before freezing completely with a loud moan barely muffled by Nicolò's shoulder — then collapses bonelessly onto Nicolò, laughing joyously. 

"My Nico," he says, and kisses Nicolò deeply. Then he slides just far enough to the side that he is able to work a hand under Nicolò's nightclothes to grasp his achingly hard prick and begin stroking it. Nicolò gasps at the touch. Pressing breathless kisses to Yusuf’s lips, he thrusts his hips shallowly into Yusuf's hand. 

“F-faster,” Nicolò says, then moans as Yusuf complies. After several moments, he arches back, groans through gritted teeth, and relaxes. 

Yusuf withdraws his hand, wiping it on his own nightclothes, and smiles at Nicolò. "We will have to ask Qāsim who does their laundry."

"Later," Nicolò says drowsily, kissing Yusuf once more before turning on his side and tugging at Yusuf's arm. With a smile, Yusuf allows himself to be pulled flush against Nicolò's back and wraps his arms around him.

* * *

Nicolò stretches luxuriantly when he wakes again later. Yusuf beside him laughs, “You look like a cat when you do that.” Then he reaches over to pet Nicolò's hair, his cheek, anywhere he can reach. Nicolò huffs a quiet laugh of his own before grabbing Yusuf’s hand and kissing his fingers. He holds their clasped hands to his heart and stares at nothing for a moment. 

“Why do you think we cannot die,” he asks at last. “Why did you not leave me alone on the field? Why did you bring me along with you to guard the caravan?”

“I do not know why we do not die. A gift from Allah or a curse from some capricious djinn, who knows?” Yusuf replies. “Before I try to answer any of the others, tell me why you offered me your hand in the middle of battle.” He sits up on the bed and pulls Nicolò to sitting as well, holding their clasped hands between them. 

“I told you. I did not want to fight anymore.” Nicolò thinks with grief of all the people killed on all sides of the war. “It was foolish and unnecessary — the whole war. It was terrible. And our actions were especially foolish, since neither of us would stay dead.” 

Yusuf nods slowly. “Jerusalem is not my home, but I was there often for my family’s business. I was angry at the invasion, at the death, and at you for refusing to lie down and stay dead. That is why I ignored your plea at first. But then you refused to defend yourself and I realized that I too was tired of the pointless fighting.”

He leans against the wall and Nicolò leans against his chest, tilting his head back to rest on Yusuf’s shoulder. “After the last time I killed you, an arrow from an archer also struck you. With both the sword and the arrow in you, it was talking too long for you to awaken, so I carried you off the field to the nearest empty house I found. I could not leave you there, though I would have liked to at the time. I recognized you from my dreams. I knew we were alike in more ways than we were different. And I am glad —” His arms tighten around Nicolò, holding him close. “-- so glad that I did, my Nico.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
